Petit Lapin
by astudyinmoriarty
Summary: If, God forbid, the world's only consulting criminal fell in "love".
1. Prologue

Jim Moriarty kept what most ordinary people would call an observation diary (or at least, that was the name he assumed people would ascribe to his musings).

In his diary, he stored information about his _petit lapin. _Not information that was easily accessible for Jim, like her birth certificate, or where she lived, or her place of employment. Important material, like where she ate at 2pm on a Saturday afternoon, or what dress she was wearing to a party, or a detailed description of the man she sat next to on the tube.

But Jim wasn't ordinary, not in the slightest, and so his observation diary was in reality not a diary at all. He stowed away every sighting of his _petit lapin_ entirely in his memory, from the first day that he ever laid his eyes on her in the library to the day she initiated their first conversation.

It was his very own mind palace and it belonged entirely to him. Jim was the man with the key.

On** November 28****th****,** Jim was sat in an armchair, legs crossed idly over the mahogany table finish in front of him, when she drifted into the library. Her eyes perused the room absent-mindedly as she wandered, pausing in discreet admiration at the high ceiling with the gold blue pattern. She'd been here before, blatant from the way she glided over to the bookshelf opposite Jim with familiarity, but she was nevertheless awe struck by the magnificence of the room itself. Jim had seen it before in humans – a tendency to be amazed by the same _dull _thing time and time again. Jim watched intently as his _petit lapin _traced her slender finger across the row of books, his own digits gently stroking the armchair's fabric in accidental synchronisation. Her finger lingered when she reached a deep red hardback – Jim's lingered, too. She removed it from the shelf with the precision of a surgeon, sliding it effortlessly from the other books. She left then, her fair, silky ponytail streaming down her back, and Jim did not see her again for exactly two months.

Jim's _petit lapin _looked at him on **2****nd**** April****_._** It was 3:21pm when Jim stepped onto the Bakerloo line train, two stations prior to its final destination. She was already seated, pointed chin resting on her chest, dark blue fountain pen poised above a notebook on her lap. Jim sat opposite her as the train pulled away, dark shadows shrieking past the windows. He watched her raise the pen to her mouth as the carriage jolted and run its blunt end gently across her pale pink lips. When the train stuttered to a halt at Lambert North, her eyes fleetingly met Jim's.

Jim made a reservation at the same restaurant she was eating at with her partner on **5****th**** May.**

"She looks like a little bunny rabbit, doesn't she? All helpless and nervous and shy," Jim told Sebastian.

Sebastian turned his head and glanced at the girl again. "It's because she knows you're staring at her," he replied flatly, opening the bottle of red wine that stood between himself and Jim.

"She could almost rival Sherlock Holmes," Jim muttered. "My _petit lapin._"


	2. Chapter 1

Jim had sincerely believed that Sherlock Holmes was, and always would be, the only person able to challenge him. It was not that Jim admired Sherlock, or was in any way fond of the man himself – but he whole-heartedly _adored _the game they played. Sherlock's supreme intelligence and apathetic demeanour meant that he was a simply perfect contestant for Jim's little show.

If London was a stage, then Jim considered himself a puppeteer, a dictator of eight million strings. He knew how to make each and every one of them dance; and it amused him endlessly. Sherlock was the only man Jim had ever encountered that wasn't merely a puppet. From terrorist cells to the government, Jim had a witting hold on them all. Why, even Jim's tough right hand man, Sebastian, had his weak spot.

Naturally, Jim knew had to make Sherlock dance, too – the man threw himself head first into any situation if he could sense danger. Sometimes, it was easy.

What was interesting about Sherlock is that he knew had to make Jim dance as well. He, too, was a master puppeteer.

Jim sat in his desk chair, hands draped over the silver metal arms, and surveyed the scene of the bustling street below from his window. The office in his penthouse offered the most magnificent view of London – from this height, every street looked like the veins of the city and every dotted building was the blood pumping through. London didn't have a heart – London _was _the heart. The heart of Great Britain; the heart of the earth. Primarily because it was home to the world's first, last and only consulting criminal, thought Jim.

He smiled to himself when he saw the time. His _petit lapin's _audition was finishing in half an hour. That gave Jim twenty minutes to travel to Potier Street in Borough and wait for her return home. She was never late, but never early either - her footsteps from the audition room to the small shop on the corner to the nearest underground back to her flat were embedded so deeply in Jim's mental map of the city that she herself unwittingly followed them, everyday, without fail.

His _petit lapin's _continued lack of success amongst the theatre crowd perplexed Jim. He knew with certainty that he'd cast her as second lead role in _any _performance he directed (after Sherlock, who would always take centre stage, naturally). In a way, he already had – Jim had invested a considerable amount of time in her over the past few months. They hadn't met, yet, but Jim knew all there was to know. He'd rifled through paperwork, files about her that only he could access privately.

Somehow, he was still intrigued. For such an _ordinary _human, Jim's _petit lapin _possessed an unbridled ability to infinitely entertain him.

He stood up, taking one last glance through the glass at the toy world below him. Straightening his tie, he paced to the door, lifting his coat from the white leather sofa and made his way to the elevator. A car waited for him outside.

She rounded the corner to Potier's Street at exactly five o'clock, her strides a little uneven as she walked with a carrier bag jarring against her leg. Loose strands of flaxen blonde hair tumbled around her face as she hurried towards her flat. Her coat collar was turned up against the wind. It had clearly been another unsuccessful audition.

"Poor _petit lapin_," Jim cooed under his breath.

On a normal day, she would not have seen Jim as she made her way to her front door. She'd never even sensed that somebody was studying her every move with uninhibited intent. Despite the theatrics that came so naturally to him, Jim knew how to stay unseen and inconspicuous – merely an ordinary face blending into an ordinary crowd.

He'd been perfecting the art his whole life. A consulting criminal did not simply saunter into a room, all guns blazing.

But Jim was calm and collected as he sauntered towards her, hands deep in the pockets of his suit trousers. She didn't see him with her eyes glued to the pavement until she'd bolted straight into his chest, the tip of his chin bashing against her forehead.

His _petit lapin _snapped her neck up, her pale, watery eyes wide as she gazed at Jim.

"I am sorry," he drawled, a smile playing on his lips. "I didn't see you there."

Pink immediately flushed her porcelain skin. The proximity between them remained excruciatingly close, as if the ground had swallowed her feet like quicksand. Jim stood tall, his hands still in his pockets, disregarding the social cues to move away. She continued to stare at him, scarcely blinking. _Petite lapin recognised_ him. It was as if Jim had released a floodgate in his mind and the notes from his observation diary had overflowed into her own head – she'd seen this man before, in the library, on the tube, at the restaurant, on the bus, at the pool, in the shopping centre, at the drama studio, in the park. _Petite lapin _was _frightened._

"C-can I help you?"

Jim had never heard his _petite lapin _stumble upon her words in fright before. It was unusually satisfying.

"You might be able to. Alternatively, I could help you." Jim shrugged and then offered her his hand. "James. Jim, if you will."

Shewarily raised her dainty hand. Jim saw the tiny blue green veins spread over her knuckles from beneath her exquisitely pale skin – he adopted a firm grasp as he shook it. He could have snapped his _petite lapin's _hand cleanly from her bony wrist.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Jim purred when she remained silent. "Let me take your shopping, it looks heavy."

He reached out, tucking a single finger beneath the plastic handle of her carrier bag. Instinctively, she recoiled, pulling the bag up and out of Jim's reach. In turn, Jim put his own hands up in the air; palms flat towards her in submission.

"I'm not trying to steal it from you. I've got plenty of pot noodles at home," he gently teased, peering into the bag. "What's your name?"

"'What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice merely a hoarse whisper.

Jim smiled. "Can't a gentleman not help a lady with her shopping?"

She briefly glanced past Jim at the street ahead – only a few yards away was her house. It looked as if she might start running; unbuckle her legs and elbow past Jim, leave her shopping at his feet, sprint to her flat, slam the door shut and lean with her back against it until she thought he'd gone.

She didn't, of course – Jim's _petit lapin _had always been so thoughtlessly determined.

"I know you," she croaked. The colour drained from her face. It was a shame, thought Jim - she looked much prettier with rosy cheeks. "You… you've been following me."

"We might have seen each other before," Jim admitted coolly, rocking back on his heels.

"I – you were on the bus yesterday. In the morning. You sat near me."

"And you didn't even talk to me. I was quite hurt really, seeing as we were the only passengers," he said, sighing.

Unease washed over her pallid features. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you following me?" she asked. Her voice was assertive this time; indignant.

Jim resisted the itch to tell her that he thought she was just so _adorably hilarious_, settling with, "I could be of some use to you, Maria."

Her eyes widened again at the sound of her name easing through the lips of a stranger. "I d-don't want your help with anything."

Before Jim could make his offer, she'd lowered her eyes back to the pavement and began striding past him. Had it been anybody else, Jim would have snatched him or her back, making sure that they were fully aware it wasn't a 'very _wise_ idea to run away from Jim Moriarty'.

But he wasn't at work now. This was all just fun.

"I don't know why that casting director was so snarky today. He didn't give you a fair chance at all," Jim hummed. His _petit lapin's _footsteps stopped behind him. "And how terribly unprofessional that he cast the girl who was so unashamedly flirting with him before the auditions even began. Everyone in that room should have questioned the professional integrity of a man who hired the first female to drop her yet…" Jim turned around to face Maria, who was staring at him once more in disbelief. "You did. You knew he was just a sleazy pig, living in a dog-eat-dog world. Because you're clever."

"Were you at the audition, too?" she asked cautiously.

"Oh, no, no, no," Jim muttered. "You'd have made a simply divine Diana Kirkwood though."

Jim strolled towards her, closing the gap between them once more. This time, she didn't flinch. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and, with two fingers, handed her a sleek, black business card.

"I know people in the industry, you see," he started. "I can help you out. I personally think that you were born to be on stage, but judging by your recent pursuits, it looks like I'm the only one to have seen your potential."

_Petit lapin _reached out her slender fingers and took the card from him.

"It has my number on the back," Jim said indifferently. "You can meet me tomorrow to discuss matters, if you'd like."

"You know I could just call the police?" she replied.

"Oh, I know," Jim crooned with a smile. "But I really wouldn't advise it."

He turned on his heel and began to walk back down Potier Street. It was silent for a moment, bar the click of his black leather brogues, until his _petit lapin's _saccharine voice drifted past him.

"Where do I meet you?"


	3. Chapter 2

"I'm going to write a book."

Sebastian shot a wary glance at Jim, who sprawled on the sofa at the other end of the spacious office. "What's it going to be – '20 Ways To Splatter Somebody's Brains Against A Wall?'"

Jim bared his wolfish teeth. "The Chronicles of Sheriarty!" he exclaimed.

"_What _in the name of God is 'Sheriarty?'" replied Sebastian.

"Sherlock and Moriarty. Get it?" He dropped one arm from the settee, letting it dangle idly in the air, his fingers not quite brushing the carpet below. "Not a crime novel though. A romance. A red hot, passionate _romance_."

"You really are bored, boss," chuckled Sebastian, his laugh warm and deep. He returned to the folder that lay across the desk in front of him and tapped it with the side of his pen. "I wouldn't give up your day job for it. You've got a big client list here."

"Read me some," muttered Jim. Folding one arm across his chest, he closed his eyes.

It was an impossibly tedious morning.

"Anthony Peterson, aged 35. Teacher. In a relationship with his seventeen year old student and…" Sebastian paused for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "His boss knows about it. Bloke wants him dead so he doesn't get the police involved. Decent prison sentence for that sort of thing apparently."

"What's he offering?" Jim drawled.

"Money. A lot of it, I suppose – but it doesn't specify here."

"_Boring_."

Rifling through the folder again, Sebastian paused upon a certain piece of paper and nodded favourably. "Fancy planting a bomb on behalf of a terror cell in the USA? Bit more up your street."

Jim sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "White House?"

"That'd just be showing off," Sebastian replied with a smirk.

"Well, yes - that is the point, Moran."

Jim exchanged a sneer with Sebastian as he lifted himself from the sofa and paced to the window of his office, hands hooked behind his back. Sebastian had served as Jim's right hand man for almost seven years. Whilst Jim showed little appreciation for the gift and flair of others, his admiration for Sebastian's personal skills were absolute – he was an exceptionally skilled marksman and Jim, though he frequently failed to admit it, relied heavily on his talent at work. He was also remarkably intelligent, despite his bulky frame and brutish demeanour, equipped with not only several rifles but also a first degree in Law.

He was not a friend, by any means. Friends weren't a group of people that belonged to Jim. By his book, contact extended only to colleagues, clients and targets – and Sherlock, whom Jim labelled an "intellectual equivalent". As far as colleagues went, however, Sebastian was as loyal and dependable as a friend would be to Jim. His devotion didn't go unnoticed – only Jim's way of acknowledging such loyalty was to demand that Sebastian accompanied him to all client related crime scenes. Besides, Jim didn't like getting his hands dirty.

He wondered what that made his _petit lapin_. She wasn't a colleague, or a client – and she couldn't possibly be classified as target, because Jim still wasn't certain what he was pursuing her for. Not only that, but Jim's targets rarely met a happy ending.

Jim did not wish to hurt her. She was like an abstract museum attraction, encased in glass – Jim could circle her for hours, days, weeks on end, observing her and trying to decipher just what was so interesting about such a nondescript girl.

"Boss, that was the door."

Sebastian's brusque tone interrupted Jim's thoughts. Jim took to the seat at his desk and nodded at Sebastian.

"Go and let her in then."

Sebastian furrowed his brows, patently confused, but exited the office silently. Jim rarely dealt with his clients face to face.

But this wasn't a client.

She'd be moving up to Jim's penthouse in the elevator this very second. Jim imagined she'd be stood with her shoulder pushed hard against the wall, trying her best to maintain significant space between herself and Sebastian. She'd be focusing on the plush white carpet, wondering why on earth anybody needed a fully furnished lift. She'd catch Sebastian's eye in the mirror – he'd be staring at her, wondering what on earth Jim was thinking.

Maria edged into Jim's office shortly afterwards. Even her dress sense was tediously predictable – long, silky hair tied up as usual, cream day dress, charcoal grey cardigan, tan loafers. Plain and simple; mildly unflattering on her gangly frame. She held her hands tightly in front of her as she stood in the doorway, her skinny legs crossed at the ankles. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Shy – and not in the charmingly coy manner that so many young women deliberately adopted. Jim's _petit lapin _was positively terrified, again and he found it _so funny._

"Welcome to my humble abode," sang Jim, grinning. He made a flamboyant gesture to the seat on the other side of his desk. "Do take a seat, Maria. It's all ready, just for you."

She walked over quietly and slid into the seat opposite Jim, eyes averted from him.

"There's really no need to look so frightened," he murmured, lowering his voice. His musical Irish lilt lent itself to tenderness when necessary. "Would you like a drink? Tea – coffee?"

Maria looked at him from beneath a furrowed brow. "I'm here only to discuss business matters with you."

"Ooooh, burn!" hissed Jim. His expression broke into a villainous grin. "I'm only trying to make a little small talk with my brand spanking new acquaintance. How was your day?"

"It was fine."

Jim shrugged, concluding that if he wanted to keep her company for any longer, it was hardly worth asking her about the doctor's appointment she'd attended that very morning, or how the last university lecture of the term went. Maria's expression was stony as she watched him, her eyes boring into Jim's with determined concentration. The close proximity had sparked confidence in his _petit lapin._

"I've set you up with a nice little project," Jim began, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. "Two, actually. Theatre to begin with – forget Diana, you could be playing Thomasina of Tom Stoppard's _Arcadia _on Broadway within the next month. It's low budget, but it's better than going to a different audition everyday and coming home with the same result –" Jim cleared his throat and mocked the voice of a casting director, "_I'm afraid to tell you, that, on this particular occasion, you have been unsuccessful_."

Maria winced somewhat, but she remained deadpan. "And the second?"

"Period drama."

"TV?"

"Of course."

Jim watched Maria as she leant back in the desk chair, contemplating his offer. The late morning sun that streamed through the window behind him cast a ray of pale light diagonally across her face, illuminating every contour of her skin. Jim noticed the small, faded scar on the corner of her upper lip – dog bite. The records had told him that she'd had surgery three times within a month when she was five in order to realign the damaged tissue and prevent permanent scarring. It had worked – the mark was hardly noticeable. He saw the dark, gaunt rings beneath her eyes too – consecutive sleepless nights. She'd been arguing with her boyfriend. He'd heard some of the arguments – financial issues generally fuelled them. The fading freckles on her cheeks – a holiday to Gran Canaria two months ago.

It was exceptionally rewarding for Jim to know every detail about the girl who sat in front of him – and for her, in return, to know nothing about him other than his name.

It was likely that she could only assume he was an extremely wealthy man, judging by the size and splendour of his London home and personal bodyguard who'd led her to his office – possibly due to inheritance, but more probable that he acquired a well-paying job young. Other than that, Maria could only assume that he was very strange man, dressed in a very expensive suit, to have followed her for so long.

"What's the catch?" she asked him, her voice dry.

"Very smart," Jim replied. "There _are_ conditions."

"Being?"

"You're paid by me."

"Why?"

Jim sat back, folding his arms. Maria did the same. "Just think of me as your agent."

"Why can't I be paid like everybody else?" Her voice had begun to crack once again, each word faltering through her trembling lips.

"Because you didn't get the job like everybody else. I had to do some sweet-talking on your behalf, honey. Nobody wants the star of the show to be the girl who's only done pantomime in seedy theatres."

Maria sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap as Jim explained his 'conditions' – the money would be paid to her weekly, in person and it was all on Jim's terms. He wondered if she'd realised that the laughable proposition was simply because he wanted to spend time with her, and the job that Maria so desperately needed was the most convincing incentive. There was no contract to be signed, or contact details to be traded. Maria had Jim's "business card". Jim had Maria's entire life on an impossibly miniscule chip in a laptop. He was certain there would be no issue getting in touch with his _petit lapin _again.


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Just wanted to say a really big thank you to everybody who has read and followed this so far - it's messy and unorganised and a little sporadic, but I'm enjoying it massively nonetheless, because... reasons... (Jim Moriarty!)**

A biiiiig thank you to **_Swim Until You Can't See Land _****(who gave me my first ever review on -exciting!), ****_ , theincredibleinkspitter, Superdani4Ever and Miko Hayashi _****for their kind reviews. They make me smile for at least an hour after receiving them. ;-)**

Hope you enjoy!

Little to Jim's surprise, in the weeks that followed their first meeting, he had no reason to actively pursue Maria – she arrived at his house, nine o'clock, every Friday morning to collect her pay, a crisp white envelope with notes neatly folded inside. Sebastian had been surprised at Jim's constancy; he had, thus far, never been late to his quiet meetings with Maria, even on a morning after business the night before.

Jim had watched with pleasure as his _petit lapin's _confidence grew each time she rapped on the office door. Far from the timorous creature he had met only a few weeks ago, Maria emitted an air of confidence in his presence now. She sat calmly at his desk, leant back, long legs crossed out in front of her and watched Jim intently, hanging on to each word that rolled off his tongue. She didn't look as troubled as she had before either. The dark circles beneath her eyes had lifted; her nails were no longer bitten down to the quick. Jim knew that the money was invaluable to her – she worked hard at the theatre and on set for the television production, and Jim followed each diligent shift with cash.

Yet her new self-assurance was, Jim concluded, a façade. Maria was shrewd enough to know that transparency was a sure-fire way to be taken advantage of – and Jim, sat up in his ivory tower with feet on the table and a smirk pinned permanently upon his handsome features, was hardly a man to be trusted. Her action plan was blatant to Jim – stay cool, stay confident, even if you're shaking life a leaf in a windstorm deep down. It was almost a shame Jim knew his _petit lapin _so well as to see straight through the guise. He enjoyed watching her make the effort, nonetheless.

It was hardly easy to sustain a civilised conversation with a psychopath (Jim had no qualms is using the word to describe himself), but Maria had managed it effortlessly on several occasions. She spoke about herself reservedly, but she shared personal information with Jim nevertheless – how her new job was going, her family, her friends. Jim stared at her silently as she spoke, an occasional twitch in his lips or the corners of his dark eyes. She was so very captivating, in an ordinary, human sort of way.

Sebastian had once remarked that Jim looked at his _petit lapin _in the same way that an "avid gardener looks at a blossoming flower". Jim had rolled his eyes at Sebastian's '_disgustingly sentimental'_ comment and proceeded to remind Sebastian that he merely enjoyed knowing he could break Maria's fragile, finite life within seconds.

This particular Friday morning was an anomaly.

Jim woke to murky sunshine pushing its way through the damask curtains onto his exposed chest. The room was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke and spirits. He kicked away the hot, sticky sheets that had tangled themselves around his legs and sat up at the edge of the bed, his feet planted firmly on the floor. The room whirled as he adjusted to the insipid sunlight. He lit a cigarette and made his way across the room, picking up the remains of his suit that had been littered across the carpet.

The white sheets no longer covered the woman in bed. She lay on her front, angular face turned to the side, her eyes closed. Jim watched as the dark, glossy hair that was spread across her naked back rose and fell in waves as she breathed steadily. The 'Dominatrix' – or, Irene Adler. Jim had, for years, considered her only a client and nothing more – but she knew what he liked when it came to 'messing around' in lavish hotel rooms.

Jim got dressed swiftly. His pale pink shirt was crumpled slightly as he tucked it into his suit trousers, his dark hair unusually dishevelled and unkempt. He took one last look in the grand, floor length mirror before making his way to the door, stubbing his cigarette out on the nearest ashtray.

"Mr Moriarty?"

He stopped in the doorway, and turned around. Irene had sat up in bed, the sheets only pulled up to her hips. Her wavy hair tumbled down her chest, just covering her exposed breasts.

"You're leaving so soon?" she purred, raising one eyebrow. Irene simply screamed seduction.

Jim adjusted his tie, and replied coolly, "I have work."

Irene smiled knowingly. "Well, I wouldn't have expected anything less from you. You're hardly the type of man to bring a lady a cup of tea in bed."

"You aren't mistaken."

"It does make me wonder, though…" Irene began, averting her eyes from Jim and tracing a finger softly across the creased bed linen. "I thought you didn't have any contacts with your clients, ever. And, quite frankly, we've had more than just contact in the past few years. Countless times. Does that make me special?"

Jim knew she was teasing him – Irene was the last woman on earth to care whether she got a kiss goodbye after a night of detached intercourse. She cared as little about Jim as he did about her.

"I am infinitely annoyed by my most basic human needs," muttered Jim darkly, skimming his eyes across Irene's body. "Not just sex. Food and water, too. It's so time-consuming, don't you think?"

Irene laughed airily, pulling the sheets back over her as she lay down on the bed. "Have a good day at work, then."

The morning air was icy, albeit refreshing, as Jim stepped out from the hotel. Piccadilly was bustling with life – vehicles queued up the wide road, the hum of engines and sound of horns filling the air. Businessmen and women, tourists, the elderly and the young passed each other on the pavement, where the pale sun shone through the leaves and cast watery shadows on the tarmac. Jim hailed a cab at the side of the street, taking a last glance at the grand, white-pillared hotel behind him.

Only minutes away from home did he notice the time. Half past nine. He had ignored Sebastian's persistent calls since he left the hotel – he assumed that they would only be reminders that he was late for his weekly meeting with Maria.

Sebastian was pacing in the lobby with his phone against his ear when Jim pushed open the front door, tugging restlessly at his creased tie.

"There you are!" Sebastian exclaimed. He slid his phone into his pocket. "I've been trying to call you."

"Have you?" Jim murmured. He shrugged. "Is she already upstairs?"

"She hasn't been here at all, boss. She just didn't turn up."

Jim's face fell, his eyes suddenly overwhelmed by a glassy film as he turned on his heel and made his way to the elevator, ignoring Sebastian calling after him. To anybody else, he would have looked merely a vacantly composed man as he stood in the lift, hands deep in his pockets and staring straight ahead. Inside, he was spitting – furious and vehement. He knew exactly the whereabouts of his _petit lapin. _She was, conveniently, predictable. Terribly foolish, too.

Jim took a blistering shower and changed into a fresh suit. He had tried to contact Maria's mobile but had only received a pre-recorded voicemail in return.

_Petit lapin _had escaped from her hatch and tried to run – but Jim was a crafty fox, and he could run much faster. She had absolutely nowhere to hide, but he knew the first place that she'd try.

Flat 221B stood as a modest fixture of Baker Street. The air was warmer now as Jim leant against Sebastian's black Mercedes, its polished metal reflecting sunlight onto his back. Sebastian leant out the driver's window, his elbow resting on the doorframe, and looked up at the flat.

"This definitely the one?"

Jim hooked his sunglasses away from his face with one finger and turned to Sebastian. "Don't look so bemused, Moran. What were you expecting?"

Sebastian squinted at the building again. "I'd expect it to be a bit more posh, I suppose – that is, if consulting detectives earn anything like as much as consulting criminals."

"Oh, I don't think they do," Jim replied, grinning up at the flat.

"And you think Maria will have come here?"

"She wouldn't go to the police. She's obviously got the capacity for some simply _doofus_ ideas, but even that'd be crossing the line," said Jim bitterly, folding his sunglasses and tossing them through the open window into Sebastian's car. "If you don't go the police, you leap to the next worst option – Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian clenched his teeth, unconvinced.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"She might have gone away for the weekend and forgot to tell you," Sebastian began. "Family, friends, boyfriend. Maybe she overslept."

Jim glowered at his right hand man, then rolled his eyes, turned his back and began to walk up to the front door of 221B. For somebody who worked side by side with one of the world's most intelligent criminals almost everyday, Sebastian remained notoriously bad at 'assuming the worst' – something that Jim, on the other hand, excelled at. He knew Sherlock wouldn't have called Maria to question her at his flat, not like this. It would have been painfully obvious that he was trying to get information about Jim from her.

Ignoring Sebastian's protests, Jim skipped up the double step to the front door and turned the brass handle with one swift movement. He considered himself a seasoned professional when it came to breaking into somebody's property politely – he wiped his shoes on the door mat beneath him and shut the door soundlessly.

There were muffled voices above him, but not the one that he wanted to hear. He made his way up the wooden steps in the gloominess, careful so as to ensure they didn't creak beneath his feet – but the voices ceased, and Jim knew that his presence had been heard.

"Honey, I'm home!" chirped Jim, as he stepped into Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock Holmes sat on a low-seated, black leather chair nearest to the window. He had his head resting on his hand, two fingers laid across his protruding cheekbone and his angular chin resting upon his thumb. The sunrays crawling in through the window cast soft golden light across his dark, curly hair and contrastingly pale skin. Opposite him, Dr John Watson sat forward in his own chair, elbows resting on his thighs, wearing an engrossed expression upon his usually friendly, open features. As far as Jim knew, John was Sherlock's only pressure point. For as long as Jim had known the consulting detective, he had thought it ludicrous, idiotic, almost comical, that he could have become so attached and protective of a plainly dull human like John.

But now he understood as he transfixed his eyes upon the girl that sat in between their two chairs. There was his _petit lapin_, with her clasped hands between her knees again, head down and strands of hair falling over her face.

"Talk of the devil," muttered Sherlock, his eyes flitting towards Jim.

Maria spun around, her face twisted into alarm as she caught sight of Jim stood in the doorway. It was not the small, frightened sob that escaped her lips that startled Jim the most, but rather the tears that began to stream down her cheeks when he flashed her his _very best_, pearly smile.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: This chapter was very tricky to write, hence its length. Not a lot goes on, but it will prove important!**

**Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.**

"I feel all left out, sat here," Jim complained with mock distress. "You sure you can't pull up another chair for me, Sherlock?"

Jim had seated himself on the leather sofa closest to the door, his hands behind his head, distanced from the three chairs around the fireplace. John glared at him, his chin tilted down, his eyes unusually dark and his jaw clenched. Sherlock remained characteristically unruffled, watching Jim with curious intensity. There was the beginning of a smirk at the corner of his heart-shaped lips.

_Petit lapin _had reassumed her position with her back facing Jim. She was still sobbing – silently, but Jim could see her silky hair quivering each time she caught her breath.

"You've got a nice place here," Jim hummed, drawing his eyes away from Maria and nonchalantly surveying Sherlock's room. "It's a shame you can't keep it tidy. How do you work with all this _stuff _lying around?"

Sherlock's lip arched into a kerbed smile, but he remained silent.

"What are you doing here?" John said, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke.

"A clean working environment is of upmost importance," continued Jim. "It can really help to clear your mind, having no distractions. All these bits of paper piled up are just an eyesore, Sherlock, and it's hardly an efficient filing system. I highly recommend a – what do people call them – a folder, perhaps."

Jim watched with amused contentment as John leant forward, kneading his hands together with frustration. He was a curious companion – not in the sense that he possessed anywhere near as much inquisitiveness as Sherlock, but rather that his involvement with the consulting detective was a mystery to Jim. John was the quintessential 'best friend' – kind, patient, loyal and exceptionally dutiful. His medical experience had meant a great deal to Sherlock in the past, but Jim couldn't help but think that he was just a little_ too _ordinary to be accompanying Sherlock on cases, with his hefty jumpers and _tiny human brain._

"Ring binders are the best. Plastic wallets, on the other hand…" Jim sighed, and pushed a pile of paper off the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock said nothing as the white sheets twisted in the air and then drifted gently to the floor. "Although, this mess isn't all yours, is it? I'm sure your _pet _falls prey to disorganisation sometimes-"

"What do you _want_?" John snapped, his tone vehement this time.

"He is sweet, isn't he? So trustingly loyal," Jim slurred, grinning at Sherlock. "Almost as sweet as mine."

"She's not yours," Sherlock replied steadily. "If she was anything of the sort, she wouldn't be sat here now telling John and I about your little deal behind closed doors. On the balance of probability, she wouldn't be crying her eyes out, either."

"Oh Sherlock! So that's why she's here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't play the fool, _Jim_ – you know that's why."

"No. I'd thought maybe you were throwing a party," Jim drawled, absentmindedly kicking his feet up onto the table. "I'm a tiny bit upset that I didn't receive an invite."

"It's obvious what you want with her," said Sherlock flatly, ignoring Jim's comment. He spoke as if he were reading from a textbook; as if the words 'her' and 'she' had no relation to the girl sat in front of him. "I thought this might be an interesting case. Another game for us to play. The last thing I expected was for a criminal mastermind like yourself to be following an innocent female around London simply because he's _bored_. Business quiet, I assume?"

Jim traced his tongue along his bottom lip. "Criminal mastermind – I am flattered."

He watched as Sherlock pressed his slender fingers together beneath his chin, his eyes trained on the 'criminal mastermind' sat on his settee. Jim could see the cogs working meticulously inside his brain.

Silence fell, aside from Maria's intermittent sobs and Jim tapping the edge of his heel against the coffee table, when Sherlock suddenly said, "you want her because it's only human nature to want what you know you can't have. You'll never have a relationship – you're an obsessive-compulsive psychopath, of course you won't – and you know that." His voice trailed off before he quietly added, "but you're willing to try and experience _love _regardless."

Sherlock's face contorted as he spoke the word 'love' and John looked at him almost immediately in surprise. Jim knew that Sherlock wasn't one to indulge himself in the human condition.

"But why her…" Sherlock continued, settling his eyes upon Maria. "And what for?"

"You're not going to call Scotland Yard about this one, are you, Mr Holmes?" sneered Jim.

"I have bigger fish to fry."

"And you couldn't."

Sherlock glared at Jim. "Why?"

"Well, I haven't done anything wrong." Jim stood up, slid his hands into his pockets and walked slowly towards Sherlock, John and his quivering _petit lapin. _"I merely initiated conversation with Maria and have since offered her a contract of work. She's been paying the bills properly for the first time in months since our agreement."

"Stalking is a criminal offence," John chimed in, his brows furrowed. He pointed at Maria, "She's intimidated by you – _that's _why she's here!"

"It's not stalking; it's assisting somebody with their finances."

Sherlock sat up straight in his chair. Jim knew that he was wondering why on earth the world's only consulting criminal would help somebody to pay their rent – and there was nothing Jim enjoyed more than watching Sherlock wonder.

Jim stopped behind Maria and quietly placed his hand on her shoulder, his fingers tracing the outline of her collarbone through her sheer blouse. Beneath his touch, she trembled, but she didn't move.

"Maria, here, is very grateful," Jim said gently, smiling at John. "I do hope you've assured her that I'm a perfectly reliable businessman and she has absolutely no reason to feel in any way uncomfortable about our contract."

He nodded at Sherlock, and then leant forward, his face turned towards Maria's. Her fair hair was tucked behind one ear and her porcelain skin was flushed pink.

"You're quite welcome to pick up your wages tomorrow, dear," he murmured. "Do, call me if you need a lift."

With that, Jim chirped a "good morning, boys!" to Sherlock and John, turned on his heel and left Baker Street as quickly as he had arrived, with little to no doubt that Maria would arrive at his house the next morning – she needed the money, no matter how much Sherlock and his _pet _tried to convince her otherwise.

What was odd was the heavy feeling in Jim's stomach knowing his _petit lapin _had betrayed him. It was the same sensation he had felt when he first met Sherlock – something inside him yearning for control.

Control, possession and ownership. That was all love meant to Jim Moriarty.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: In which we meet Maria's boyfriend and firmly establish that Jim's a nutter.**

**Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, favourites and follows. J**

Ethan Hardy had promised himself, as he rode from his flat off the corner of Portobello Road on the bus, that this 'Jim Moriarty' would not belittle him. Maria had spent a restless night in Ethan's arms, muttering Jim's name repeatedly through a series of sobs. Ethan had stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and promised her that it would all be fine – she didn't have to depend on Jim anymore, and 'if the worst came to the worst', the two of them could move to Sussex and live with Ethan's parents until her financial situation was more stable. Truthfully, Ethan didn't really know what they'd do, but he was adamant that he'd never see his girlfriend in the state he'd witnessed last night again.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ethan stepped off the bus and made his way down the street. In his hand, he held a black business card that he'd found in the drawer of Maria's bedside table that same morning. He'd clenched his fists as he read the name 'James Moriarty' and figured that the address beneath it presumably belonged to him. Careful not to let Maria know that he planned to pay Jim a visit, he'd slyly eased the card into the pocket of his jeans. Maria had convinced herself that Jim was dangerous and Ethan knew she'd never let him leave the house if he told her that he was going to see him.

It was a stiflingly close morning, the air as uncomfortably thick as the gloomy clouds above. Ethan shrugged his jacket from his shoulders as he strode along Dawson Place. From what he'd been told about Jim, he imagined his house would be the centrepiece of the street – the one that all the neighbours gazed over their lawns at in a 'keeping up with the Joneses' manner. Nothing was recognisable, though. The buildings appeared almost identical to Ethan – tall, white stucco, with perfectly paved driveways and lush green shrubbery. They were incomparable to his squalid flat. He felt almost ashamed that Maria had visited a house of such grandeur only hours before coming over to sit in his dark and damp living room.

He continued to walk, quickening his pace until he reached a building that was far larger than the others, with an additional floor encased entirely in glass. The timid sunlight peeking through the clouds was fiercer as it gleamed on the windows. Ethan instantly knew whom it belonged to.

Acting with a façade of confidence, Ethan marched to the front door, tying his jacket around his slim hips. His heart ricocheted against his chest – what if Jim Moriarty really was a dangerous psychopath? Maria was the strongest, most determined person he'd ever met and yet Jim had kept her awake all night in fits of tears. She'd told Ethan under no circumstances to phone the police. What was this man all about?

"Ethan."

A deep, Irish voice sliced past Ethan, who spun around just as he reached the doorstep. In front of him stood a dark haired man, dressed in an immaculately pressed grey suit. He looked dour; his brows were low set over a pair of dark and menacing eyes.

Maria had told Ethan (much to his contempt) that, whilst erring on psychotic, Jim was a charming man – but the figure stood in front of Ethan looked anything but. Ethan had always associated charm with a gleam in the eye and a smile.

He puffed his chest forward. "Yeah, I'm Ethan."

"What are you doing at my house, Ethan?"

"I was coming to see you, actually." Casting a stony look across the man's face, Ethan lowered his tone. "That is, if you're James? James Moriarty?"

Jim nodded and for a moment Ethan thought he caught the beginning of a smile at the corner of his lips. He stepped forward and reached out a hand. Ethan looked at it for a moment before offering his own. Jim's skin was icy to touch, unaffected by the mugginess of the air.

"Why don't we go inside?"

A rhetorical question, Ethan concluded, as he followed Jim through the door. He was led into a wide hallway, which resembled more of a hotel's reception entrance with its marble floor and high ceiling. Jim's polished black shoes clicked on the lavish surface as he walked – Ethan began to feel out of place in his scuffed trainers. In silence, they moved across the hallway, with Ethan absorbing every last magnificent detail of the house. In front of him, an elevator door skimmed open as Jim walked past and then quickly snapped shut when Ethan passed. Ethan paused for a moment, struck by the elevator's sudden movement at his presence. He imagined that it was for security purposes – but who required that level of protection?

Jim led Ethan into a dining room that looked utterly misplaced. It reminded him of the renowned board game that he used to play as a child with his parents – _Cluedo_, he recalled – with its dark laminate flooring and oak furniture of the same colour. It was dimly lit, with luxuriously lined burgundy curtains blocking out the natural light. A long table, that must have seated at least thirty, stretched out in the centre of the room. At each end was a seat larger than the others, with velvet armrests, archaic in nature. Jim pulled one away from underneath the table with his right hand and gestured for Ethan to sit down with his left. Pulling his sleeves over his knuckles, Ethan perched on the edge of the chair.

"What is it that I can do to help you then, Ethan?" Jim asked, standing with his hands in his pockets.

"It's about my girlfriend. Maria," said Ethan, although he was sure Jim already knew that. Besides, he'd known who Ethan was before he'd even had a chance to introduce himself.

"Ah, yes." Jim smiled. "Maria."

"She told me about yester-" Ethan stopped when he noticed Jim's shoulders tense. "Well, the thing is, I don't think she really wants the job anymore. You know – the acting stuff."

"Right."

"Not the money either. She doesn't want the job or the money."

"And you're telling me this _because_?" Jim asked, his tone condescending.

"So you know not to expect her anymore."

Jim folded his arms across his chest. "Where is she today?"

"At home," Ethan shot back – then immediately regretted what he'd said. If Jim had been stalking her, as Maria had revealed the night before, he hardly wanted to let Jim where she was. "She was going out this morning I thi-"

"No, no, no -why isn't _Maria _here telling me this?"

Ethan drew breath and looked at Jim. In the dim light, his face looked familiar. The black eyes and tightly clenched jaw - Ethan tilted his head slightly, as if he remembered those features from somewhere. "She's scared of you – well, maybe not of _you_ exactly, but of what you'll do if she says she don't want that acting job no more."

Jim grinned, a frenzied display of bared white teeth. He reminded Ethan of a King's jester. "Oh, she hasn't got a reason in the world to be scared of me!"

"The job – she doesn't want the job anymore. Clear?" Ethan asserted with more confidence than he felt.

Jim rocked back on his heels. "You're a lucky man, Ethan, what with Maria being your better half. She's like a precious stone, that one. You'd do anything to protect her, wouldn't you?"

Ethan nodded, a chill settling on his spine.

"You'd do anything to make her happy?"

"Yes."

"OK – so you'll understand how important it is that she carries on with the acting."

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's making her miserable."

"No more miserable than when she didn't have a job at all," Jim said. "At least now she can afford to pay the rent."

"She'll just find another job."

Jim arched his brow. "We both know she's _utterly _unemployable. Beautiful, yes, and highly intelligent – but that CV of hers is poor, Ethan. Very poor. This is her gateway to a career in theatre. That's what she wants."

Ethan felt his face flush red. He stood up, untying his jacket from around his waist and pulling it over his arms. "I'll tell her that the deal's off."

"No you won't. You'll tell her the deal is very much on and things will continue as they have been."

Ethan watched cautiously as Jim glared at him. It was the stare of a cold, callous and calculating man; the sort of gaze that remained etched in your mind. A bead of sweat trickled between Ethan's shoulder blades and he turned swiftly to leave the room, his eyes averting from Jim and locking onto the door instead. He felt like a tiny bug having landed on a spider's web, trying to free himself before the spider noticed he'd invaded his home.

Any attempts to escape would likely be futile. Ethan wondered if that was how Maria had felt.

"I wouldn't walk out that door if I were you," Jim said as Ethan fiddled with the silver handle.

Swinging the door open, Ethan turned around to face Jim, who remained composed beside the window of the dining room. "You'll leave Maria alone."

Ethan stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Like the dimness of the dining room could not prepare Ethan for the sudden brightness of the hallway, Jim's threat could not have prepared him for what happened next. A sudden sharp pain in his left side, twisting and gutting sent him staggering against the wall. Grabbing the wound with both hands, he rasped in agony, unable to catch his breath. He turned around to face his attacker but felt a blow again in his back before he could twist his body around - a slower hit this time - a blade sinking through his jacket and deep into his skin. He fell hard to the floor, his knees slamming against the cold marble, and then nothing.


	7. Chapter 6

Ethan had been missing for forty-eight hours before his body was found slumped behind some bins in an alleyway, in Borough. It was a dustbin collector who discovered him; a tall and lanky man, no more than twenty-one, with a shock of blonde hair and a gaunt face. His skin was white as he delivered his condolences to Maria on her doorstep a week later.

The police had arrested a forty-nine year old man, Mattius Gopaul, on suspicion of murdering Ethan. They believed that Mattius had stabbed Ethan twice in a drunken rage on his way home from the local pub - once in the side and a fatal blow to the back, puncturing his lung. Mattius had pleaded guilty. The officer who'd spoken to Maria the day after Ethan was found had been softly spoken with a kind face, and he'd sat on her sofa with his hands in his lap, assuring her that Ethan wouldn't have felt much at all. Maria was thankful for his sympathetic tenderness.

Maria had seen Mattius' face on the news, the same still image each time – his mug shot. It had been shown alongside a picture of Ethan on holiday in Croatia. Ethan's brilliant smile, glowing skin and bright eyes were a sharp contrast to Mattius' dull, dark expression. She supposed that was the point – show the most menacing picture of the murderer against an unquestionably beautiful picture of their innocent victim. Maria found herself squeezing her eyes shut and decreasing the volume whenever his picture materialised on the TV screen. It was too painful to think about.

The neighbours on either side of Maria's house had told her it was a terrible tragedy. Maria's friends and Ethan's friends had gathered together at a pub on Portobello Road to commemorate him. The cast at the theatre had offered Maria support too, even though they didn't know Ethan personally. The hardest people to talk to in the aftermath of his passing had been his parents. His mother, Dawn, had been inconsolable. She sat with her head in her hands the whole time Maria was at her house, bawling. Peter, her husband, was equally as upset but he didn't cry. Ethan had always said he was 'tough as nails'.

Now Maria padded quietly on her kitchen floor to the fridge. It had just passed eight thirty and the dark evening had drawn in with lashings of rain. Ethan would have called her at around this time usually. She opened the fridge, the yellow light flickering on with the pull of the door. It was empty, save a carton of milk and half a red pepper. Maria's eyes pricked with tears. She didn't have any money to buy herself more supplies.

She had lain defeated on the sofa, tracing lines across her concave stomach, when there was a knock on the door. Three hard hits, a rhythm she'd become familiar with in the past few weeks – the police.

The faces that she answered the door to were familiar, but not whom she had been expecting. Sherlock and John stood alongside a man who was only marginally shorter than the consulting detective, with short silver hair and a long waxed coat. All three had rain dripping off their shoulders.

"Maria," John began. He forced a sympathetic smile. "How are you?"

"Fine. All fine. Thank you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John interrupted with, "Would you mind if we came inside for just a moment?"

Maria moved behind the door – Sherlock stepped past her, with John close at his heels. The third man paused beside her and reached into his pocket for an ID card.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade – Scotland Yard," he said. His voice was not proud or imposing in any sense – he announced his name as if it were merely customary. "I know it's late but we think we've found new information on Ethan. Well – Sherlock's found new information."

He smiled at Maria and rolled his eyes. She couldn't help but smile back as she shut the door behind him and followed the trio into the living room.

"Take a seat," she said. "I'm sorry it's such a mess. Things have been a little hectic recently."

"More than understandable," replied Sherlock. He stayed standing as John and DI Lestrade settled themselves upon the only sofa. "They've got the wrong man."

Maria stared at Sherlock blankly.

"Mattius Gopaul. He didn't murder Ethan."

"How do you know?" Maria asked.

"A number of factors involved," Sherlock said. "No weapon was found – not with Ethan or with Mattius. A knife wound, clearly, but Mattius wasn't carrying a knife and he didn't have one in his possession at home either. There were no DNA traces that Mattius had been anywhere close to Ethan when they ran forensics. No blood at all on Mattius clothes and judging by Ethan's internal injuries there would have been a lot of blood-"

"Spare her the gory details Sherl-"

"CCTV also. There's a CCTV camera outside the pub Mattius was in on the night they think he murdered Ethan. The footage shows that he came out of the pub and turned left towards Potier Street, instead of right where Ethan was found-"

"Wait." Maria rubbed her eyes, overwhelmed by the speed in which Sherlock spoke. "Mattius pleaded guilty. He admitted it. They must have some solid evidence to prove that he did it, or why would they have arrested him in the first place?"

"That's what's interesting. One of many things the police missed." Sherlock rolled his eyes scornfully. "Somebody set him up. Somebody clever."

Maria leant against the radiator, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Her head had begun to ache. She knew that it wasn't uncommon to grieve and be in denial – Ethan had only passed away a few weeks ago and she still hadn't fully come to terms with it. It wasn't that it didn't matter who his murderer was, but she felt too tired, too hungry, too strained, to process anything Sherlock said. She trusted him. She trusted John. She was sure she'd come to trust the kind and sensitive DI Lestrade. She trusted that, together, they'd bring Ethan's murderer to justice.

If Sherlock was right (and Maria had deduced that he was rarely wrong), a man was being held a prisoner for a crime that he did not commit. There was still somebody out there, a man with more malice than she could ever have imagined Mattius had, that had brutally murdered her boyfriend.

She shuddered at the thought. DI Lestrade explained that his police team, with Sherlock, would be taking charge of the investigation and appealing for Mattius' release as soon as they knew who the real criminal was. Sherlock said that he had an idea, his lips curling into an icy, distant smile as he folded his hands behind his back and paced to the window. John had glanced nervously at Maria and DI Lestrade had told him firmly not to disclose anything that they had no proof of yet.

They left half an hour later, stepping out into the driving rain again. John put a hand on Maria's shoulder. "Sorry. Sorry that you've had to go through all of this."

Maria smiled resignedly. "Thank you for your help. I really mean that. And thank Sherlock, too."

John looked towards his companion who was making his way down the street, his elegant outline blurred by the rain, and smiled back. "He'll sort this out, you know. Take care."

* * *

_Take care, _Maria repeated in her head as she stumbled over her lines for the umpteenth time that morning.

She looked up at the director, a tall, middle-aged man with a stern face. He straightened his glasses on his nose and frowned at her. "Try again, one more time."

Maria took a deep breath and tugged at the hemline of her dress, ignoring the exasperated sighs from the rest of the cast. The cameraman was leaning across his equipment, chin slumped on his hands and his eyes half-closed as she toyed with her clothing. Maria flushed red, desperately trying to recall the black lines that had been written on her script.

After a moment, she sighed. "I don't know. I'm sorry. My mind's gone blank."

The director ran his hand down his face and fiddled with his glasses again. "Let's take a break. Everyone back here in ten."

Maria intended to make a beeline for the dressing rooms, to avoid the disapproving stares from the other performers, but the director caught her arm as she rushed past him.

"What's your name again?"

"Maria Glynn."

"Well, Miss Glynn - you seem to be having a spot of trouble with your words?"

The director had tired, pale blue eyes. Maria toyed with the idea of telling him that she was the girlfriend of the young man who'd been on the news – she'd overheard him talking to another actress the same morning about what a tragedy it was – but promptly decided against it. She didn't want his pity, even in her tired and hazy state. Instead, she decided on, "I'm feeling a little under the weather at the moment."

Arching his brow, the director looked at his watch. "Yes. Well. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest." He tilted his chin down and muttered, "If you don't mind me saying, you're… holding us up slightly."

Maria muttered a reluctant apology and bowed her head, feeling her cheeks heat up again. Swiftly collecting her coat and bag from the lockers by the door, she left the room. She could feel the director's eyes boring into her – he probably thought she was entirely inept. Sometimes, she felt that way herself.

The tube line back to Borough was hectic, sweating the Saturday rush of families, tourists, businessmen and businesswomen. Maria savoured the outside air when she emerged from the underground and made her way to Potier Street, unzipping her coat despite the cold.

At home, she stopped dead in front of the door. A white, laminated sign had been stuck upon it. Her eyes began to water before she'd even had a chance to read it – she knew exactly what it was.

_Miss M Glynn… Please take notice…. Pay rent or vacate notice… We regret this notice… 3 business days…_

Eviction.

She slowly unpinned the letter and let it float to the floor as she stepped inside her house. Her mind raced as she leant up against the wall in the darkness.

She knew there was only one person who could sort this out for her.


	8. Chapter 7

"I do wish you'd knock," Jim said, on hearing Sebastian's heavy footfall in his office. "One of these days I'll be performing a task that requires the utmost level of concentration and it's so hard to concentrate with you trampling about."

Sebastian laughed. "What are you up to that's so important?"

"Everything I do is important, Moran. Right now, I'm thinking." Jim turned around, his back to the large window, to see Sebastian dangling a black leather wallet from a strap on his burly wrist. He smirked. "I asked you to pin up an eviction notice and you've returned with a man's wallet."

"A dead man's wallet."

"It all ran smoothly then?"

"Like clockwork," Sebastian replied, dropping the wallet on Jim's desk. They both sat down in unison; Jim in his office chair and Sebastian on the settee. Sebastian shot Jim a smile and Jim couldn't help but notice the gentle and good-natured man behind it. He always did – Sebastian was the last person on earth anybody would suspect of being a cold, hard killer.

Jim flicked open the wallet. He discarded three twenty-pound notes, an oyster card and several receipts on the floor until it was empty, bar a credit card.

"Good," he drawled, sliding the card from its pocket. "You've done a good job here, Moran - this should give us all the information we need. How many bullets?"

"Just the one, boss."

"Mr Precision!" Jim grinned. "How I wish I could say the same about your handling of knives. Poor Ethan. You made him suffer."

Sebastian folded his arms and leant back on the sofa. "You told me not to use a gun. You know… he's been on the news a lot lately."

"You've no need to worry. Everyone thinks it was Mattius. We got him to admit to it. He's been locked up. All fine." Jim began to study the credit card from the wallet and said, "Give our client a call. Tell him 'mission complete'."

Sebastian nodded, reaching into his back pocket for his phone. Jim spun around in his chair to face the window again, when he spotted a familiar figure hurrying down the street towards the house. Petit lapin. Her bag clutched to her chest, she fought against the wind with her head down, walking quickly. Jim feigned sincerity – but he struggled to resist smiling. He stood up.

"Looks like our eviction notice worked!" he said to Sebastian, straightening his tie.

* * *

Jim opened the door to Maria before she'd even had a chance to ring the bell.

He greeted her with a suppressed smile and it has been a while, Maria. Besides, it had been – the last time he'd seen her was at 221B Baker Street. Before her life had crumbled with the death of her 'other half'. Puppy love, Jim thought. Could people not see how terribly idiotic it was to rely on another meagre, breakable, undependable human being and call it love?

Maria was paying the price.

"Could I come in?" She paused and looked up at him with tired, heavy eyes. "Please."

Jim took great pleasure in leading her through the grand hallway in the same way that he had with Ethan. He kept his eyes fixed on the door to the dining room, but they stopped at the elevator and stepped in together, Maria with her arms folded and eyes averted from Jim, hopelessly unaware that she was only a few metres away from the unidentified crime scene.

"So, why has it been so long since we last saw one another?" he asked, leaning back against the mirrored wall. He'd perfected the art of deceit.

Maria rolled her eyes. "Do you even need to ask?"

"Yes."

"You don't watch the news?"

"No."

She glanced at him, incredulously, before the doors of the lift silently opened. Jim pursed his lips and gestured with one hand – Maria led the way this time towards his office. He walked at a distance behind her, a dark silhouette floating along the panelled wall.

Sebastian smiled at her as she stepped into the office. Maria greeted him with a small wave in return. Jim assumed his seat at his desk whilst she stood clumsily near the door, her hands clasped in an awkward knot. Jim tried not to bark the demand as he told her to sit down, but she perched on the end of the sofa beside Sebastian with such apprehension that it looked like he'd scolded her anyway.

"What's been going on then?" Jim asked.

Maria looked at Jim with a fleeting air of confidence that he so enjoyed – it was alluring in a way that gratified him to no end. "In short, Mr Moriarty, we haven't seen each other in so long because my partner – how you haven't heard of him with the amount of news coverage is unbelievable – was murdered." She closed her eyes for a moment, her bottom lip trembling. Her poise faltered again as she muttered, "And I've just been evicted from my home because I can't pay the rent anymore."

Jim watched her carefully, unable to look surprised. Sebastian was watching him. He knew what the look meant but he merely shrugged at the sniper. He couldn't lend Maria any sympathy – primarily because it was his own doing, partly because he didn't sympathise, and even if he had, he'd never pitied a soul in his life. Not Sherlock – certainly not his petit lapin. He wouldn't have been able to provide a shoulder to cry on if his life depended upon it.

Sebastian patted her leg awkwardly with his large hand, but recoiled it almost as quickly. "That's awful, Maria," he said. "Really awful. I'm sorry – we're sorry."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Go and get her a drink, Moran."

Maria only looked at Jim once Sebastian had left the room. A strange ambience arose without him. Outside, dusk had arrived as the sun settled behind the city skyline.

"What happened to your boyfriend?'"

"I really don't want to talk about it, if I'm honest," Maria said. "Look on the news. It's all there."

"Do they know who did it?" Jim pressed.

Maria rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. "I don't know. They arrested a man – Mattius Gopaul – but… it wasn't him. Or at least that's what I've been led to believe."

Jim remained silent, waiting for the name to spill from Maria's lips.

"Mr Holmes thinks that they've got the wrong man. His team is taking over the investigation. I don't know a lot else. They said they'd be in touch." She bit her lip. "But Jim, that's not why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you about –"

"Money, I know." Jim nodded at her and stood up. "I'll be back in just a moment. Make yourself comfortable."

He strode out the room before Maria had a chance to answer, closing the door behind him and went to find Sebastian in the kitchen. He was stood beside the counter, pouring whiskey into a hand cut crystal tumbler.

"I wasn't sure what to get her," Sebastian said, smiling at the bottle. "In my experience, vodka makes women emotional drunks so I just went with Glenfiddich."

"You clearly don't know how much a bottle of that costs," Jim replied, clenching his jaw as the expensive liquid splashed at the bottom of the glass. "Listen, Moran – do not let Maria leave this building. Not tonight. Sherlock's on the case."

"Already?" Sebastian took a sip of the drink, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Impressive."

"Indeed. Give me that – go and lock the doors."

Jim took the glass from Sebastian, as well as the carefully sculpted bottle from the counter, and made his way back into the office. Maria had composed herself on the sofa and Jim thought he caught the start of a smile at her lips when she looked at the bottle in his hand.

"I thought by 'drink' you meant tea or coffee," she said lightly, as she took the glass from Jim.

He sat down beside her. "Do you like whiskey?"

Maria contemplated for a moment and then smiled at him. "No. But I'd drink anything right now."

"So – money."

"I've got nothing-"

"I'm not surprised. Your pay packets have been stacking up over here. But you haven't been to collect them."

"No, I'm sorry. But I'm glad they're here."

Jim leant forward. "It won't be enough to pay your rent though. And I'm afraid I can't lend you that sort of money. I just can't."

Maria nodded at him understandingly, the long strands of blonde hair around her face illuminated by the golden light streaming through the window. As she took a long swig of whiskey, Jim thought she looked beautiful. "I know. It doesn't really matter how much it is, just as long as I can afford to eat. I'll sort out the flat later."

Jim didn't need to ask her when the last time was that she'd had a proper meal. He could tell from the gauntness of her already thin features that it had been a while.

"You could stay here tonight," he said firmly – it was hardly a suggestion or a request, but an order.

Maria snapped her head up, her pale eyes startled. "Oh, I really don't think that's necess-"

"It wouldn't be any trouble. I've got quite enough room. You can eat, have a good night's rest and we'll sort out what you've earned in the morning. Besides, it's getting late."

Maria sipped her drink again. "The offer is kind Jim, but please, don't worry about me. It's time I was heading off, anyway."

"Where do you think you're going to go tonight, Maria?"

"Well, I can go back home for now, the flat's still mine-"

"To a cold house? With no food? Good idea, you think?" He smiled at her. "At least stay for something to eat."

* * *

Jim and Sebastian emerged from the dining room a few hours later, Sebastian carrying Maria in his arms. She looked birdlike against his large frame - her head lolled against his chest and she breathed slowly, her mouth slightly agape and her eyelids fluttering. Jim rolled his eyes and called the elevator.

"People are so easy to persuade when they're drunk, hungry or tired," he muttered flatly.

"Or all three in this one's case," Sebastian added, laughing quietly. "Where are we going to put her, by the way?"

"I thought we could just leave her here," replied Jim, his eyes scanning the lift's interior.

"Sarcasm?"

"Yes, Moran."

"I have to check with you sometimes, boss." Sebastian grinned.

Sebastian stepped out of the elevator on the third floor with Maria and made his way down the corridor towards the spare master bedroom. Jim retired to his own room on the next floor up. He had to work out what he was going to do about Sherlock Holmes – the man was sure to realise that Jim was behind Ethan's death. A clock had started ticking.


End file.
